Derar thanked him.
“I must check my posts,” said Bryennius. “Then you may wish to carve a soldier’s scant meal with us.”
“It would be our honour. Perhaps we can share. Farisa has some bread, cheese and lamb. Do you drink the wine of Shiraz, Count Bryennius?”
“Yes, we do!” boomed Togol.
Thus the former enemies spent the night on the steppe.
Archēsh, Mid-morning,
21st September 1054
The following morning, Basil Apocapes’ tiny field force entered unopposed the devastated city of Archēsh. The Seljuk maimed had been left at a church to the clemency of the monks. Basil’s men could find no sign of the turmarch in the city and none of the survivors could tell of his fate. Some swore he had been killed after being horribly tortured, finally confessing where the city’s gold was hidden. Basil appointed John Curticius to remain with most of the troops to restore order in Archēsh and Artzké, with the promise that Manzikert and other cities would send what aid they could. The surviving stragglers of the Seljuk army who had been captured the day before, mostly Daylami footmen, were set to work repairing the defences and cleaning the debris from around the public buildings. Lascaris’ squadron of the Sixth Schola was tasked, for the time being, to assist with the restoration of order to the town. Basil ordered the mounted screen pushed forward to maintain pressure on the retreating enemy. Another party set out by fishing boat to make contact with the garrison and theme commander at Van.
Guy, Bryennius, Togol and ten cataphracts rode for Kavadh’s smithy. Guy wished to meet the man that saved Irene during the sack of the city. Bryennius thought to offer him assistance as the blacksmith was a Muslim in a Christian town. Now that the Seljuk army had gone, prejudice and vengeance would come to the fore. Riding around the corner of the back lane leading to the shop, they saw an angry group of perhaps two dozen townspeople. These shrank back from the armed party.
A veiled figure in drab riding clothes, sword in hand, guarded the entrance to the structure. At Guy’s approach the figure lifted their veil and he was astonished to be looking into the green eyes of Irene Curticius.
“What are you doing here?” they asked of each other in unison, Guy looking down at her from Sira.
Irene recovered first and explained, “The local people have lost virtually everything. In their pain they have attacked Kavadh. I arrived just in time.”
Just in time to nearly share his fate, Guy thought. Instead he said aloud, “The road isn’t secure.”
As though reading his thoughts, Irene explained. “I quickly caught up with the rear guard, so I was quite safe—except from the dust. I came to reassure myself that the man who saved me would in turn be unharmed. I see Count Bryennius had similar thoughts. But, Kavadh is hurt.” She motioned to the farrier and moved towards him. “You guard the door while I see to him.”
Guy rode inside the building and saw the farrier sitting with his back to a post. He was holding a shoeing rasp as long as a man’s forearm. Guy knew it was the first thing the Persian farrier had been able to pick up to defend himself with. A bloodied gash on Kavadh’s forehead marked where a thrown rock had momentarily stunned him. Shahryād was in a corner loosebox, dried sweat on him from the long ride, the saddle equipped for a journey and reins tied to the near stirrup.
Dismounting, Guy tied Sira up well away from the stallion that whinnied in greeting to the mare. Sira pricked her ears at Shahryād for a moment, then turned her head to look at the noisy crowd outside the doors. “You women are all the same,” Guy grumbled under his breath to the mare. Sira gave him a quick nudge of acknowledgement with her forehead.
Bryennius dispersed the gathering, telling them Kavadh was under Roman protection and that public vengeance would not be tolerated. The four stayed with Kavadh a short while, breaking their meagre bread and taking cool water from the well in the yard. Guy wondered at the bond forged between the young woman and the man who shod her horse, as she stayed in this far away outpost under the spell of one whose name Irene now never spoke. Perhaps Kavadh also loved her a little, he thought. He pictured in his mind’s eye, Irene coming to the smithy and sharing her troubles as the blacksmith shod her horse.
Kavadh recognised Bryennius and Togol as the countrymen who had visited his shop the day before the brightened star in the sky. He remarked on it and asked after the imperial courier. “I never liked him and often wondered about you two showing up.” The farrier was silent awhile, his gaze drifting with workmanlike interest to the way in which their horses had been shod. “And those two fellows who passed through, weeks before you, having me shoe their horses in the manner of the Persians?” He looked around at them, saying as though thinking to himself, “These have been strange times indeed. What became of the courier? I always wondered if you hunted him—or whether he hunted you? Or whether each hunter was in turn hunted?”
“It’s said that he died on the walls of Manzikert,” Bryennius replied. After a moment’s reflection, he asked Kavadh whether he knew any of the imperial courier’s associates in the town, or had heard of an insignificant fight on the Manzikert road the day before the first sighting of the new star.
A shiver ran down Guy’s spine as he thought of the ballista bolt aimed at his back by Cydones as he had ridden from Manzikert’s gates. Guy remembered Togol talking about the two attackers who had escaped from their attempt on Bryennius’ party as they returned from Archēsh. He wondered, as he had no doubt the count wondered, who they were and what became of those two.
Kavadh had not heard.
After a time they rose to go, said their goodbyes to the Persian farrier of Archēsh then rode to the citadel to find the strategos.
Basil Apocapes established himself in the turmarch’s former quarters, still being scrubbed clean of filth by Daylami prisoners under guard by Armenian cavalrymen.
Guy could only imagine how it felt for Irene when she had been here before, or what feelings touched her now. Seeing her stand in the place where she had loved another only to be betrayed, he felt that familiar sense of solitude. Irene glanced over and saw the look on his face, which he attempted to cover with a smile. He knew the attempt failed and his mouth had only twisted into a grimace.
In the background, the strategos was explaining how Bryennius was to return with his men to Manzikert. Curticius would restore order. Basil himself intended to move on with a flying column to shadow the Seljuk army east to Berkri, the first Armenian town to be sacked in this campaign of 1054. “So many dead,” Basil murmured. “And so many wounded, and carried off and ravished. Stock destroyed. Dwellings wrecked. Gold and silver stolen. All the feed burned away or consumed by friend and foe alike. It will be a hard winter and I don’t know how we shall survive without famine and misery.”
Irene, sensing Guy’s thoughts, held his gaze. Gently she walked to him and took his hand to lead him outside. Guy looked at the strategos who waved him away.
Downstairs, where troopers of the strategos’ escort held their horses, Irene asked, “What irks you, Guy? Are you worried about him, Ankhialou? You need not. I love him no more. Nor have I since before I left this place.”
Guy thought of Ankhialou. Imagined visions of the man with Irene vied with sharp images of the snarling face of the one he fought outside Manzikert. Suddenly he was aware of Irene looking intently at him. “Derar al-Adin says he is dead, but didn’t see it!” Guy said.
Irene blanched and he wished he had remained silent. “It vexes me,” he said. “We’ll need to be ever watchful.”
She moved a step closer and took his hand. “We are assured he is no more, but if that is not so, perhaps he’s gone to the Persian lands with their army. There’ll be no safe place for him in Vaspurakan now.”
They sat on the step together, waiting for the others to come out. Changing the subject to a more cheerful one, Irene asked Guy, “What will you do now that you a
re rich?”
“The strategos has said I must return to Constantinople to receive largesse and perhaps an office from the Emperor.” He had come into her life as a penniless mercenary and ridden against the catapult out of love for her and through desperation at the plight of all in the city. How he had profited by it sat uncomfortably with him, given the despair and penury, but he had little desire to test his finer feeling by returning to his former hardship. “It seems I am favourably mentioned in despatches and the strategos has made certain undertakings on behalf of the empire.”
“Your good fortune seems to bother you, Guy?”
“In part it does.” He turned to look in her eyes. “I have only done what seemed worthy. Many others have done right and lost everything.”
“Others have done wrong at every turn and profited by it. What about Taronites? And Kamyates? How they have grown rich at the suffering of others.” She looked at him intently. “You saved Manzikert. You have risked your life and earned your reward. Take what you are comfortable with and give what pleases you for the public good.”
“There’s only so much I can cart all the way back to Constantinople,” he joked.
Excitement sparkled Irene’s eyes as she listened. “Constantinople! It is the one place to be in the entire world. You will …,” Her voice trailed off as she saw the look on his face.
“Will you come with me?” Guy asked. “As my wife?”
Irene flung her arms around him, whispering damply into his neck, “You must ask father.” She drew back and looked at him. “He’s upstairs with the strategos.”
Guy stood, having asked the impossible question and received the answer that once seemed beyond hope. He rose and strode past Bryennius and Togol towards the steps.
They looked after him. Togol shrugged.
To Guy’s mixed relief, delight and frustration, the princeps’ approved of his suit on the face of it, but raised the issue of the incompatibility of their different faiths. It was agreed between them that Guy would escort Irene and her mother to Constantinople and the care of the extended Curticius family, where some contract might be reached on who would convert. Guy knew such a breathing space might be prudent, but certain of his feelings, was impatient at the delay. He relayed this to Irene who professed to be satisfied with the arrangement, if equally impatient and suspicious of her father’s designs for the family’s influence.
Derar al-Adin assuaged Guy’s nagging doubts about Ankhialou later that day during the long ride back to Manzikert. “While I did not myself see the deed or the lifeless body, there is no doubt of the fate of those who brought the Sultan to Manzikert.”
The Sixth Schola spent another night on the steppe. Traumatised peasants and refugees out of hiding approached, begging for food and, though it was less apparent, for reassurance from the trauma. The soldiers shared what little they had. Recognising it was cold comfort to the terrified citizens, the cataphracts affirmed the Seljuks had withdrawn beyond Archēsh and were unlikely to return during this season.
“That would be right, sirs,” an old peasant had muttered. “There is nothing left for them to take and few left for them to kill.”
That night was cool. Guy awoke in the small hours, lying for some time looking at the near-full moon high overhead and the new star in Taurus. From his cloak, he could see the huddled figures of the soldiers, the pacing sentries and horses on the picket line, their heads bowed from hunger and work. He thought back over all that had happened since he had watched the moon over Arknik on the march from Karin. Thinking of Irene, curled in her cloak a discreet distance from him, he felt a deep sense of hope for the future.
The regiment rose before dawn and resumed the march, by evening the footsore men leading their weary horses through the long sunset shadows of the circling mounted patrols and into Manzikert.
As they entered Guy looked towards the breach where the fighting had been so bitter. Now the foundations of the smashed wall had been excavated in preparation for permanent repair. Piles of cleaned, cut stone for the facings were stacked nearby and workmen were toiling in their shirtsleeves, collecting rocks for the mortared rubble of the filling. Masons were already setting the first stones in place.
“Look there,” said Jacques in such a tone of astonishment that Guy turned quickly to see.
“Where?” asked Guy, who could see nothing worthy of such a remark.
“No. I’m mistaken,” joked Jacques, “for a moment, I thought I saw Kamyates getting his hands dirty doing something useful.”
Guy glanced at Jacques striding along on one side of him as Irene walked on the other. The peasant was now excellently horsed and furnished with fine armour and weapons. Remembering the times he had seen Jacques with Joaninna, Guy reflected that his man had also prospered and found comfort for his soul. His comrade of the siege now counted as a friend.
“His hands are grubby alright,” Guy said, before turning to happier thoughts. “If only my father could see us now, Jacques.”
“For my money,” Jacques replied, “I think he should. We’ve done well enough. But you can tell from the way people talk, that the frontier’s unstable. So I think, with your approval, I’ll be back off home to Provence with Joaninna. You should also return, having made your fortune. Charles’ family should know of their son’s fate and courage. Know it from you.”
Guy thought that a tempting, if complicating, thought. The bereaved family would have nothing to thank him for. Looking around, he could see the garrison and citizens had been industrious during their three-day absence. The environs of the walls had finally been cleared of corpses and work parties were burning the debris from the ground formerly covered by the Seljuk encampment and siege lines. It was as though the townspeople wished to expunge the memory of it from their souls. Around the fortress, people had already herded out livestock in search of grazing. Peasants were scratching furrows in the grounds to plant barley; the hardy, quick-growing cereal crop which was the mainstay diet for people and animals alike during the freezing winters. Others mixed, dried and stacked the dung-cakes that would provide fuel through the winter.
Count Doukas met the returning column inside the north gate and had a long conversation with Bryennius after he dismounted. Guy, standing nearby, learned with a jolt that Centarch Bessas Phocas had sickened from infection and died.
Bessas, dead?” Bryennius said barely audibly, moving a pace and grasping a stirrup leather as if to steady himself.
Doukas looked closely for a moment. “I believe that Kamyates may have had something to do with it, for the cunning courtier has left for Karin with the avowed intention of returning to the palace in Constantinople and reporting on events here. The scoundrel will have gone to cover his tracks, paint his own part as significant and everyone else as being at fault in some way.”
Silently, Bryennius undid the throat lash and pulled the helmet from his head. “Who went with him?”
“He took his servant and that creature, Reynaldus.”
“Did he now? When?”
“Three days ago. As soon as Apocapes and you were out of the way. They’ve a good start,” Doukas answered.
“Basil will be furious,” said Bryennius, turning away. He approached and addressed Irene who was standing by Guy. “Mistress Curticius. Serena Cephalus is your friend …”
“Of course,” she whispered. “I will go to her.” With a quick touch of Guy’s forearm she mounted and was gone.
“I am very sorry,” said Guy not knowing what else to say.
Bryennius nodded understanding and stood by his horse for a little time, looking across his saddle as if far away. At length he turned to Lascaris. “Antony, we have services to perform.”
A month later—Manzikert,
Early morning, 30th October 1054
Basil had been outraged on his return a week later when told of Kamyates’ flight to the capital. The st
rategos seemed as much exhausted by the Herculean task of repairing the physical and moral wounds of the district, as by the fight to drive off the nomads. He simmered over the escape of Kamyates, his mood somewhat improved by despatches from Constantinople informing him that troops of the Macedonian theme, commanded by another Bryennius—an illustrious general close to the inner circle of that famous military family—would be sent to the eastern frontier, to be in a position to defend it by the following spring.
Guy was there when Basil passed the news to Bryennius.
“Militarily,” Basil had told him, “I think we’ll be all right here through the winter, until your distant namesake arrives with the Macedonian legions, which, so they tell me, will drive the Persians before them as did Alexander.”
Bryennius had grinned at the strategos’ sarcasm.
“Leo, I’m sending you and your men back to Constantinople—you’ve done your bit. Tell Cecaumenus what has happened here, that a hundred and thirty thousand Christians were sacrificed to the indulgence of the shepherd king.” Basil looked long out of the window at the circuit walls of Manzikert. “The shepherd king! One man caused all this—these paths and destinies to intertwine, some with horror and death, others with hope and—what chance this life? And for what purpose?”
Basil had been quiet for long moments, staring out, as though at the horizon. He returned to Bryennius. “Beware of Kamyates. He’ll be spreading poison as soon as he gets back to Constantinople. When he hears you’ve returned,” Basil had gripped Bryennius’ shoulder, “well, watch your eyes. Kamyates will try and have them out, especially if you openly contradict what he says—that this was a minor battle and the Seljuks are no threat to the empire and that the incompetence of the eastern armies was to blame. Take Guy with you. Kamyates will be unable either to counter his well-deserved fame, or deny what he relates of events at Manzikert. And speaking of events, have you heard any more of your Arab friend?”
A Dowry for the Sultan Page 68
